faderift | [CLOSED] silverwhere?

"No shit." She makes a show out of checking underneath of a pew but he's already moved out of the room and completely misses it.

Oh well. Plenty of other things to look through and knock over. Stacks of pamphlets she can knock over, catching fragments, sentences- "Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him," thus spoke the prophet Andraste, as she cast down the Tevinter Imper- before they scatter across the floor.

"They probably used to be." Cozy and neat. Silent. Empty places of worship usually creep her the fuck out, but the Chantry does not. Probably because people still come here regularly and it hasn't been lost to time, forgotten about. To clarify, "I came here from an apocalypse."

That's the best way to put it, right?? Anybody else would call that but to her it was the way she'd always lived. "Lots of places like these back home, but... not a lot of people left to use them."

This is the second time he's heard of a Rifter coming from a place that was hellish; idly he wonders if that's at all a factor in why they're chosen. Then again: Astarion's world had seemed intact. His life was hellish, but his world whole and hale; perhaps it's just idle chance. Or—

He sticks his head out of the little room, frowning at her. "What kind of apocalypse, exactly?" Maybe it would be easier to ask do you come from the same world as Ellie, but one thing at a time.

Fair question. Abby doesn't look, because she's busy opening little drawers up by the altar, rifling through, leaving them open, "Pandemic."

You know. She gestures at her head with one hand, mimicking the sprout of mushrooms, "Brain-eating fungus." And in fact, she'll connect the dots for him. She may as well, considering how much of a social butterfly Ellie is, "D'you know Ellie? In Scouting, missing two fingers. We're from the same world."

"Ah." Brain-eating fungus is a new term; he'd heard it was a disease not unlike the Blight, but that adds a new layer of horror to it. For a moment he vaguely tries to think about what that might mean . . . a corpse with an empty skull, staggering around and acting on the impulses of some disgusting bit of mold . . . eugh. It's theoretically no more horrific than the Blight, but there's something off-putting about what you aren't intimately familiar with.

But ah, so they are from the same world. Fenris jerks his head in a nod, confirming that— and then, rather than return to his search, leans in the doorway, looking at her. "A lucky happenstance." His tone even. "Did you two know each other prior to being taken here?"

"So lucky." Her tone is as even as she can make it, and she's saved from answering his question by immediately (thankfully) discovering, "Ah ha."

A little collection of silverware, how about that. The drawer was tucked into a cabinet underneath an array of stacked cups. She shakes the entire thing out of its grooves. It's painfully obvious to her that Fenris is putting two and two together of his own accord in the background (her avoidance of the subject isn't going to make that any better) but she's determined not to bring it up. He'll have to do it, and she won't make it easy for him.

For now: "Help me with this." They should split the load, so that Abby's bag isn't full of soup spoons.

She wants to make it difficult, and that's fair enough; he appreciates that over a blatant lie. And you know, it's none of his business? It really isn't. Whatever history Abby and Ellie have with one another (and they surely do, for gosh no I never once met her is a lot easier than openly dodging a question) is their own business, and by all rights Fenris ought to respect that.

He won't. He's not perfect by any stretch, and on the list of sins, nosiness really isn't all that bad. Besides: he's rather fond of Abby. There's a certain blunt sensibility about her that Fenris appreciates.

"Ah. It was so bad, then?" Idly said as he comes over to help her. It's smart not to load one bag full of spoons, yeah. It'd probably be smarter too for them to wrap each individual one with some kind of fabric, but eh, fuck it. "What was the issue?" She can tell him to fuck off if she really wants, but you never figure anything out unless you ask.

Hopefully he still likes her blunt sensibility when she tells him, "Yeah." And he's only just met her and so isn't entitled to any of the details, but perhaps he'll be expecting for her to continue breezily, "And it's none of your fucking business."

Not angrily, just light and matter-of-fact, a clear indication that he should drop it as she tips the other half of the cutlery draw into his open pack. A couple of knives miss and hit the ground loudly, but she doesn't seem to care. It'll look more haphazard and frantic if they leave a few things scattered anyway.

Abby glances over her shoulder, checking. "Let's get out of here."

He laughs when she says that. It's quiet, more an amused scoff under his breath than anything else, but still, it's there. She's absolutely right, is the thing of it. It's none of his business and he's being nosy, but ah, he appreciates someone who says such a thing outright instead of politely demurring.

But yes, leaving seems advisable. He follows her towards the door, and they're just about to open it when a thought strikes at him.

"Can you speak Tevene?" Any kind of Tevene, really; he doubts anyone in this tiny village can. "It may help sell the act if they overhear certain phrases." But really: why on earth would she? It's an irritating language to learn, doubly so if you haven't grown up with it. Leaning up against the ancient wood, he tips his head, regarding her.

"Festinare, populus excitare mox." Which is sort of a handful, and so he adds: "Or, if cursing suits you more: futuere."

Abby chuckles too when they start walking; she can hear the dull clinking of all the forks in her pack. That's subtle.

To his question she raises an eyebrow, and says, "¿Qué? Perdón. No hablo inglés," in a good imitation of somebody she misses very much; what he says back to her sounds like no language she's ever heard before. Which makes sense. Because why the fuck would she know how to speak Tevene–

"... I'm gonna stick with the swear words." Best thing you can learn in any language, "What was the first thing? Festinare, something,"

"Festinare means, more or less, hurry up." He shifts his own pack up, listening with satisfaction to the silverware rattle. He has never been one for sneaking about, wraith-like powers or not; much easier to simply charge forward and deal with things head-on. "Futuere can mean . . ."

Hm. He pauses for a moment, but finally: "Go fuck yourself, I think, would be the most accurate translation. But if you wish for something more versatile, fasta vass is one I default to often. Fucking hell might be a good, if not word-for-word accurate, translation of that." Language is his passion, really— and honestly, it's just good to speak his native tongue. "If you wish for more, I would not mind teaching you. Later, though, perhaps."

"Okay."

She'll take him up on that and gladly, once they're out of the woods. Or, rather, out of the Chantry? since they have to exit the same way that they came in. At least they can be as noisy about it as they like now that they're on the way out, blatantly leaving the place with bags clinking from all the stolen shit inside of them, and Abby bitterly exclaiming, "Fasta vass–" amongst a litany of other things, all equally as rude as the last (and all very truthful, because she nearly loses her balance on her way out of the window).

Abby is in a good mood. It's from a combination of relief that Fenris didn't push her for information, and genuinely enjoying herself. There's something enjoyably mischievous about this stupid mission, and yelling swear words in a different language as they leave the scene of the crime.

(She drops a fork on the way outta there, but she bent it solidly in half, first.)

[CLOSED] silverwhere?

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